A Jester's Origin
by Fabricehunter11
Summary: For about as long as Batman has patrolled the streets of Gotham, the Joker has been there with him creating chaos. He deems himself Batman's other half, and the two needed each other to complete themselves. Good can't exist unless you know evil, and the Joker serves as an evil opposite to Batman's good. However, even he is curious about his past and how his chaos-filled life began.


A whistling breeze blew across the skyscrapers of Gotham City, which stood fast in their foundations, repelling the weak currents with ease. It was beautiful night, with the moon's soft glow causing the tall buildings to emit a silver hue. The stars twinkled in all their brilliance, showing no care for humanity so far beneath them. But despite the magnificent scene above, it was another story below.

Calmly, I stood atop the Wayne International Plaza, watching the mayhem take place in the streets. Men, women, and children alike went after each other like mad dogs with crazed eyes that portrayed no mercy or sympathy. I was unable to tear my eyes away, no matter how gory things got. As a matter of fact, that only only piqued my interest more, as I saw people's true nature climb to the surface, their 'upright citizen' disguises being thrown away in the effort to survive.

The wind wrecked havoc with my unkempt green hair, but I paid no heed to. Excitement coursed through my body in anticipation. Tonight was going to be a good night.

With my chalky-white fingers, I dug into my purple jacket and retrieved a Joker card. Staring at it, I turned my head as if I was looking at a mirror, occasionally adjusting stray hairs back to the top of my head. Finally, I grinned, saying, "Don't I look devilishly handsome this fine evening."

With this, I threw my head back and burst into laughter, my voice echoing deep into the night. Only a few minutes prior, I had hacked Gotham Communications and broadcasted a new game across the media:

"Good evening, you lovely citizens of Gotham. I, the Joker, will be tonight's entertainment! I have planted a bomb underneath Gotham City, and in exactly two hours, it'll blow! However, only one person may survive if they can find a certain golden box containing a phone. With that phone, they can call for a helicopter to transport them out of Gotham, and unfortunately miss the main event. If anyone tries to leave before the allotted time or call for outside help, then everybody goes bye-bye. Remember, only one survives. Let's have a blast! Literally! See you guys at the fireworks!"

The plan was working perfectly. Even officers, the city's protectors, unloaded rounds of bullets in citizens scurrying to save their own lives. Chaos consumed the city and hearts of Gotham, and I couldn't be prouder of my own work. The illusion of right and wrong was waved aside, and the destructive human nature had taken over.

Finally, the bat signal shone high in the sky, the sign that my good friend Batman would be coming to play with me. The thrill of chasing something so elusive as Batman sent adrenaline through my system, and I could hardly wait. In the past, he had foiled several of my plans, plans I'd constructed down to the last detail, all to be shattered by him. The man was hard to corrupt, and fought me with everything he had.

I could rid myself of him. Oh, how I've entertained the thought, yet to quickly dispose of it and roar in laughter. There was no way I could do something so absurd. He was the only one capable of playing my games and keep his so called 'morals' intact that he foolishly carried around. He was the only one who could possibly ever get me, if only I could get him to see the point of life was that there wasn't! That was the joke!

Suddenly, a feeling of tranquility washed over my wiry body, and I looked up to the gray moon. Just how long has my battle with Batsy been going on? And when had I become so obsessed with this masked man who dressed like a bat?

My head began to sting, and I tried to shake away thoughts of the past. Nonetheless, I was already intrigued. I had a desire to remember, never mind the pain. Perhaps it was the magical night that stirred locked away me, or maybe it was because deep down inside, I longed to remember my past. To before my eyes were opened to truths of this world.

Before I was the Ace of Knaves and the Clown Prince of Crime.

I don't remember the first time I wielded knife. What I do know is that it was one of the most natural feelings, the blade being an extension of the hand, only sharper and more precise. I handled one now, using it to operate on a dead cat's corpse. Entrails I had removed lay sprawled on the concrete floor behind my house, and the animal's snow-like white fur was stained with dry blood.

"Jack!" came a voice from within the house. "Come here now!"

I choked down an angry retort and took a deep breath before responding, "Coming, Mother!"

Carefully, I placed a black sheet over the grisly scene, laid down my knife, and rose to my feet. I would resume after school tomorrow, to see just how many little parts made up the small animal. Though I had covered the bloody mess, no one would be coming back here.. Mother has rarely stepped outside, ever since since my father left her while she was pregnant with me. For the past seventeen years, she has been sobbing and recalling dear memories, but whenever I asked about him, she would simply state that I had the same mischievous twinkle in my green eyes he possessed. Then she would return to sobbing. She had no will to live, no motivation to continue life without "Ted," the name of my father. Constantly she'd drown herself in liquor, trying forget the pain. You could tell she truly loved him, and that same love had been her downfall.

Love. Something I'll never truly comprehend.

The sun was concluding its trip across the afternoon sky, and darkness began to fall over Gotham. I retreated inside and found my mother slouched in the living room couch, with bags under her dark eyes and her blonde hair in a wild frenzy. She wore nothing but a night robe, and she waved me closer, clutching a couple of dollars in her hand.

"Go buy some milk and eggs," she said.

I took notice of the alcohol bottles by her chair, knowing this to only be an excuse to get me out of the house while she drank to her heart's content and cried in solitude.

I nodded, took the money, and left.

As I turned a corner, I noticed a poster plastered against a wall with an image of a missing cat. It was the same cat I was previously operating on in my backyard. Its yellow eyes glared at me through the poster, but I felt neither threatened or remorseful for my actions. I had found the cat strolling an alley and on a whim decided to operate on it. It wasn't my fault its owners couldn't keep it from wandering. Nonchalantly, I went to the poster and in one swift motion ripped it off, before crumbling it and tossing it away.

At Kraig's Convenience Store, I wasted no time grabbing the milk and eggs and making my way to the line. Only one employee was available today, meaning only one line as well, which now contained some eleven people.

While waiting, I flipped through the pages of a magazine I had grabbed off a nearby shelf. I stopped at the first article I deemed interesting, the title reading: "Deadliest Serial Killers In History." I shuddered with excitement as I read about notorious men and their horrible deeds to humankind. Though many people perceived these people as evil, ruthless murderers, I saw them as ingenious men and women able to carry out effective and systematic schemes to kill their targets. It took brainpower to avoid being detected by others for so long while killing at the same time.

One man in particular stood out to me. In the picture portrayed, the man looked to be in perhaps his early thirties, with black, slicked back hair and green eyes. He wore a thin smile, and deep lines covered his face, almost giving him an older appearance. He held himself with such relaxed composure you never would have guessed him to be convicted of killing over a hundred and thirty people in a span of just six months. His name was listed as Theodore Dunby, originating from Gotham City and frequent visitor of the Elizabeth Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane.

I stared at his picture, trying to understand why his mere image begged for my attention. It wasn't his large body count. It was something else. Why was he smiling, knowing fully well of the punishment he would be receiving for his deeds? Or maybe he wasn't worried, and smiled out of victory instead of defeat.

"Can I help you, sir?"

My attention was reverted back to the present, and I found myself being stared down by the bald cashier. His intense brown eyes showed he didn't want to be here any more than I did. I tried smiling to ease him, but that didn't seem to work. I restored the magazine to the shelf and proceeded to check out my things.

When I returned home, I was greeted by an unconscious mother on the living room floor, her hand clutching the last bottle of alcohol that had led to her undoing. My nose wrinkled in disgust, the stench almost too much to bear.

After years of practice, I lifted her from the floor and carried her to her room. I placed her on the bed and was ready to leave when she stirred.

"Ted . . . come back, please," she murmured in a tipsy voice.

I froze. She thought I was Ted.

"I kept our memories," she slurred in a barely audible voice. "I kept our things in the attic, Ted. To show you when you returned."

Memories? Could she mean? My eyes widened, and without a word, sprinted off to the house's attic. It took time, but I was able to recover an old, dusty red box titled "Memories" in what I recognized to be Mother's handwriting. I'd seen the box before, but never thought much of it, but now I knew it held a vital piece of information: my father's identity.

Inside were loads photographs, with occasional items such as a flower and keychain. In the photos, beside my mother stood the same black-haired green-eyed man from the magazine I had read at the store.

That's when it clicked.

Theodore.

Ted.

It all made sense now. Theodore Dunby was . . .

My father.

And I was his son.

I began to understand why I felt so different from others. Why my craving for chaos and mayhem didn't sit well with my peers. This what set me apart from the ordinary cards in the deck of life. I was like the Joker, different from them. Special. Like my father.

I had to leave Gotham, to find out who I really was. Why my father wore that smile, and what secrets this world hid. I needed to rid myself of the old me and be reborn.

But I couldn't leave without a proper going-away party.

The next day, disguised in a clown mask, I went to school with a submachine gun and caused uproar like no other. Teachers and students fled, desperately trying to escape, only to be gunned down by a hail of bullets. I couldn't stop laughing, the chaos filling me with satisfaction. This was my last show, as the curtains were closing over the old Jack, and a new character was preparing to take the stage.

I ran away after that and disappeared. I took on a new persona and burned off my fingertips, as to not leave any traces.

It would be years later before I would return wreak havoc on Gotham City as the world's most dangerous jester, the Joker.

I fell down to one knee, my head throbbing with pain. The agony reminded me why I had kept these memories hidden, and had never tried recalling them. My own mind had subconsciously placed them in a chest and buried them deep underneath the grey matter of my messed up brain.

Prior to tonight, whenever it came time for me to remember the past, I would usually construct a fable to satisfy others, such as me being a failed comedian with a pregnant wife, or maybe even a criminal leader named the Red Hood who fell into a pool of chemicals. What could I say? I have quite the vivid imagination.

Without warning, the wind was knocked from my lungs as two large black boots connected with my chest and sent me flying. I took a hard fall, but was soon back on my feet with a grin. Standing before me was him, the one I've been waiting for this whole time. Good ol' Batsy!

I licked blood from my lips. "You're late."

"I'm sick of your twisted games, Joker," Batman said in his usual rough, yet obviously unnatural voice.

Laughing, I said, "If I had quarter for all times you've said something similar, I'd be a real threat to putting Bruce Wayne out of business! But money is no fun. Chaos is much more pleasing for the soul."

His fists clenched in anger, much to my pleasure. "Since when did you have a soul?"

"Ooh! Batsy with the witty comebacks! I would trade insults with you all night-I have a quite a few-but we unfortunately don't have the time." I nodded to the frenzy below.

In what seemed like an instant, Batman had covered the ground between us and was upon me, landing punch after punch on my wiry body. Over the years, I had grown accustomed to the onslaught of Batman's attacks, and though a regular crook couldn't even take two clean hits, I was able to sustain much more damage and keep kicking afterwards, if you know what I mean.

I was granted a second of time as Batman prepared for a heavy punch, and I took this chance land a kick on his abs, giving me a break from the barrage.

"Come and get me, Batsy!"

Without looking back, I ran the other way and jumped off the building, my laughter filling the night air. I barely heard Batman calling me crazy before I landed on a plane zooming by. I glanced back at the masked man and waved.

"What're you waiting for?"

And just like that, we were off again. Another night filled with battle, and with many more to come. Batman thought I had a huge masterplan behind my actions, and though he was somewhat right, he wasn't at all. I am an agent of chaos, and I simply want to upset the balance of order.

I simply want to watch the world burn.


End file.
